


Wish You Were Here

by HauntedHotel



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Although he isn't in this one much, Birthday, Blow Jobs, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, Fix-It of Sorts, Friends to Lovers, Gay Eddie Kaspbrak, Gay Richie Tozier, Getting Together, Hand Jobs, M/M, Misunderstandings, Post-IT Chapter Two (2019), Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Stanley Uris Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 05:02:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29879472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HauntedHotel/pseuds/HauntedHotel
Summary: It’s mercifully cool hidden under the canopy of trees in the Barrens, swinging their legs over the hatch of the clubhouse while every so often Richie pretends to push Eddie in, waiting for the other Losers to show.The ones that are left, anyway.“Hey, d’you think—” He turns to Eddie just as the breeze parts the leaves above them, letting a shivering beam of sunlight suddenly highlight all the gold in Eddie’s brown eyes, making his dark hair gleam. He stops, his words in his throat, and Eddie frowns a little.“Hey, you've got…hold on…” Eddie leans towards him, terrifyingly close, and then one hand is cupping Richie’s jaw while the other deftly plucks at his cheek, and Richie’s quivering.“Here,” says Eddie, with a triumphant smile, holding up his index finger to show the eyelash he's just taken from Richie’s face. “Make a wish.”Richie makes some wishes, and he waits, and he eventually gets what he wants.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 16
Kudos: 168





	Wish You Were Here

**Author's Note:**

> It is Richie Tozier's birthday weekend so I am here with some fluffy nonsense.
> 
> Enjoy!

_How I wish, how I wish you were here_

_We're just two lost souls_

_Swimming in a fish bowl_

_Year after year_

_Running over the same old ground_

_What have we found?_

_The same old fears_

_Wish you were here_

_Wish You Were Here - Pink Floyd_

_March, 1986_

On Richie’s tenth birthday, when his mom holds out a cake iced with a picture of Spider-Man, dotted with red and blue candles and tells him to make a wish, Richie’s mind goes blank.

It should be easy, because if there’s one thing that Richie Tozier is good at, it’s _wanting_ things – rollerblades, the NES, Henry Bower’s dick to fall off. It’s a world of temptations.

He tries to think back to what he wished for last year, or the year before, see if there’s any satisfaction to finding out which ones have come true. The thing he remembers wishing for the hardest and most consistently was always _friends,_ but he looks at the three other kids crowded around his birthday cake and thinks maybe this year it’d be a waste of a wish, because these days he’s got the three greatest friends a guy could have.

He met Stan in Kindergarten when they made all the kids sit alphabetically, and he’d never tell anyone but he thinks the biggest stroke of luck he’s had so far is to have been a Tozier in a class that had Stanley Uris in it. They’re about as different as two kids could be and people are still occasionally surprised to see them hanging around together, but for a few years they were each other’s only real friend.

Then in second grade, Stan had made friends with Bill Denbrough, and Richie had thought for a while that maybe Stan was replacing him, because Bill and Stan are very similar in a lot of ways, ways that Richie definitely isn’t – grown-up for their age, calm and softly-spoken, able to sit still for extended periods of time. But Bill had taken Richie under his wing the same way he had done with Stan, and he doesn’t always laugh at Richie’s jokes but he never tells him to shut up and he never seems sick of him and he never makes him feel unwelcome.

With Bill had come Eddie, and Eddie…

Well, Richie feels a bit weird around Eddie just lately. Not _bad_ weird, because Eddie never makes him feel bad, but sort of fluttery and dizzy and off-kilter, almost like he’s nervous. Which is stupid, because there’s no reason for him to feel nervous around Eddie, who tells Richie to shut up at least twelve times a day but almost always laughs at his jokes or goes along with his stupid ideas and also never seems sick of him or makes him feel unwelcome.

They had started out as two sets of two best friends and had morphed along the way into a big group of four, but just recently it feels more like two sets of two again, just differently arranged.

Stan has put up with Richie for years and Bill kind of glows around the edges like Captain America does in the pages of Richie’s comic books, but he thinks maybe Eddie is his best friend now.

He must be, it’s the only explanation for the weird shudder his heart always does when Eddie shoves him or wrestles with him or bursts out laughing at something Richie does or says. The way he feels sort of invisible if Eddie’s not looking at him, the way he never does with anyone else.

He closes his eyes, and blows out the candles. His parents cheer and his friends all yell and clap and dive on him to tickle him like obnoxious jerks once his mom and dad have left to cut up the cake.

“What d’you wish for Rich?” Eddie says, once Bill and Stan have put a stop to the rough-housing and Eddie’s the only one still sitting on the floor with him. Eddie’s hair is all over the place, tugged out of its usual choir-boy parting by Richie’s hands, and the thought makes his stomach do a weird flip.

_I wish for us to be friends forever._

It almost slips out, looking at Eddie’s flushed face and gleaming eyes and scrunched-up nose, but it hits him just in time that this is probably a weird thing for a boy to say to his friend, so he slings an arm around Eddie instead and puts him in a headlock.

“I wished for a big ole smackaroo from your mom, Eds,” he says, as Eddie shrieks at him and tries to wrestle free. “I’ll walk you home later yeah? See if she’ll make it come true.”

_October 1989_

Richie’s walking through the Barrens to meet the other Losers at the clubhouse, when he stops.

Fall is in full swing so the air is crisp and cool and every time the breeze picks up the leaves spiral around him on their way to the ground like orange and gold confetti. It’s pretty, and cold enough that Eddie will probably already be wearing gloves and a scarf and a bobble hat, and his eyebrows will go all fierce when he sees that Richie isn’t even wearing a jacket.

He shouldn’t be thinking about Eddie.

He never stops thinking about Eddie.

He’s standing at the kissing bridge and it seems to him like the two letters he carved into the wood a few weeks ago are _glowing_ , like they stand out brighter than every other name and promise and unreadable scribble. Like anybody walking past would see it written there and would know; would immediately know who wrote it, know who _R_ is and know who _E_ is and know all the things wrong with Richie.

It _is_ wrong, how he feels about Eddie. He knows it is; he knows all the things said about him in marker pen in the girl’s bathroom and on the outside wall behind the science block and once on the door of his locker. He watches the news. He sees the way Mrs. K looks at him sometimes, flint-eyed and suspicious.

He wishes he hadn’t done it. He wishes he had the knife with him again so he could carve over it, mess it up and erase it forever. He’d take an axe and hack this whole fucking bridge to pieces if he could, he _would_.

He wishes he wasn’t a liar.

He sits down on the damp grass, ripping up handfuls of it and throwing them onto the beaten gravel path, sprinkling them down into the river and watching the current carry them away. He might know it’s wrong, but that doesn’t make it go away. He doubts anything could at this point.

If being tormented by a murderous clown demon from space hasn’t scared it out of him, he’s probably stuck with it – his _crush_. He figured it out this summer, that weird fluttery feeling he gets around Eddie, the kind of feeling he should be getting about Bev or the freshman girls or Phoebe Cates, it’s a crush. He has a crush on a _boy_ , and that boy is _Eddie_ , which makes it doubly wrong somehow, like every smile Eddie throws his way is something Richie stole from him, because Eddie doesn’t know how it lights him up inside, every time he’s the one to bring out Eddie’s dimples and giggles and best moods. If Eddie knew, he’d never smile at Richie again, never talk to him or laugh at his stupid jokes or probably even _look_ at him again, and then Richie would just wither away like a neglected houseplant. 

He pulls up a dandelion with his next handful of grass, and lets the loose blades fall onto the ground until he’s left with just the flower.

He closes his eyes and blows, opening up just in time to see the seeds go dancing away into the breeze.

 _I wish I didn’t feel this way about him_.

He gets to his feet and throws the empty stalk over the side of the bridge, and wonders if he even means it. 

_July 1991_

It’s mercifully cool hidden under the canopy of trees in the Barrens, swinging their legs over the hatch of the clubhouse while every so often Richie pretends to push Eddie in, waiting for the other Losers to show.

The ones that are left, anyway.

“Hey, d’you think—” He turns to Eddie just as the breeze parts the leaves above them, letting a shivering beam of sunlight suddenly highlight all the gold in Eddie’s brown eyes, making his dark hair gleam. He stops, his words in his throat, and Eddie frowns a little.

“Hey, you've got…hold on…” Eddie leans towards him, terrifyingly close, and then one hand is cupping Richie’s jaw while the other deftly plucks at his cheek, and Richie’s quivering.

“Here,” says Eddie, with a triumphant smile, holding up his index finger to show the eyelash he's just taken from Richie’s face. “Make a wish.”

He’s so close, close enough for Richie to count the freckles on his face, to see the little patches of pink highlighting his dimples when he smiles. Close enough to kiss, if Richie were braver.

_I wish I wasn’t so scared._

_May 1992_

They’re not talking about it.

When Eddie had come over to Richie’s place earlier that day, he’d made an excuse about being stuck with their history assignment, and then Richie had talked about a movie they might both go and see next week and the girl Stanley wants to take to the Summer Ball in July and neither of them mentioned the fact that Eddie’s leaving in the morning.

Richie doesn’t know what time it is now. It’s dark; the sky an indigo blanket sprinkled with stars, and the ground beneath him is starting to feel cold through his t-shirt, the grass tickling the few inches where his ankles and calves are bare under his too-short jeans.

Eddie’s next to him, lying closer than Richie thinks he probably needs to given that they have the whole garden to stretch out it, but Richie’s not complaining. Eddie’s got his arms by his sides like Richie, which means the backs of his right hand keeps brushing the back of Eddie’s left, and it’s taking all of Richie’s willpower not to thread their fingers together.

He can’t though, because if he does, and if Eddie doesn’t immediately pull away then there’s no way Richie’s ever going to be able to let him go. He’ll end up wrapping around Eddie like ivy, clinging to him and begging him to stay even though they’re both sixteen and it’s not like Eddie has a choice about any of this.

“I should probably go soon,” Eddie says, his voice uncharacteristically quiet in the soft, safe darkness. “It’s probably nearly midnight, my mom’s gonna—”

“Gonna what Eds?” His voice is bitter, he can almost taste it on his tongue as he spits the words out. “What is she gonna do?” 

_What can she do to you now Eds, she’s already taking you away from your home and your school and your friends. But she’s taking you away from me and that’s the most important thing, and call me paranoid but I think that’s why she’s doing this, I think she knows how I look at you, how I’ve always looked at you, and I think sometimes she’s afraid of how you look at me too…_

He doesn’t say any of that though, and Eddie just sighs.

“Yeah, good point.”

They haven’t talked about it, because Richie can’t bear to talk about. He’s locked it all up somewhere in his chest the whole time, since Eddie told them all three weeks ago that they were moving to New York to be closer to his mom’s sister, and if he lets a little out the whole thing will come pouring with it. There’s no way he can be subtle about this, Richie is not a little bit of anything. If he tells Eddie he’ll miss him, tells him he’s sad he’s leaving or that they’ll still be friends or that they’ll stay in touch, there’s no way he can keep the rest in.

_I’m so fucking in love with you and if you forget about me once you’re out of here it’s gonna kill me._

“Look,” Eddie says suddenly, nudging his shoulder against Richie’s. “Shooting star – we should make a wish.”

Richie follows Eddie’s pointed finger and watches it streak across the sky, a blazing trail of glitter and promise, and then closes his eyes tight – for the wish, for the tears, it’s not like it makes a difference.

“What d’you wish for?” Eddie says, and Richie knows his lines in this script, he’s supposed to make a joke, say something stupid and gross and then ruffle Eddie’s hair so he’ll screech and fight and it’ll feel like a normal night.

But it’s not, and he’s sick of pretending, and he doesn’t think he can land any jokes if he’s crying.

He sniffs, and then Eddie’s hand shifts and he weaves his fingers through Richie’s and squeezes gently, running his thumb softly over Richie’s knuckles while he tries not to sob.

 _I wish I didn’t have to lose you_.

_November 2015_

The first Thanksgiving in years that Richie’s agreed to spend with his family, and the only thing he’s thankful for is that Steve booked him a small gig back in LA in two days’ time, so he’s got a ready-made excuse to leave tomorrow.

It’s not as though Richie’s ever been fond of the holidays, but this year in particular he wants nothing more than to crawl under his bedcovers and pretend that none of it’s happening, pretend that 2016 is going to happen.

He’s not sure why, but there’s something about the year that sets off some kind of alarm in his mental calendar – a feeling of anticipation almost, but not in a good way. More in the way that he still throws up with nerves every time he’s due out on stage.

It might be something to do with turning forty next year. It might be something to do with the fact that all of his family are gathered in his mom and dad’s big sitting room, full and sleepy and pleasantly tipsy, and Richie can’t look away from his cousin Liam, who has his fiancée sitting on his lap on the sofa while she buries her sleepy face in his neck.

They got engaged two days ago – the last of the Tozier cousins to get tied down, other than Richie, and all the questions about when he’s going to bring a nice girl home are starting to feel a little pointed.

He wants to sneer at them. He wants to think of a joke, the kind of lazy, vaguely mean line he’d say at one of his shows about a ball-and-chain, or about how they’ll stop having sex when she never loses the baby weight and then she’ll leave when she finds out he’s been screwing an intern at work. A few years ago he’d have said it out loud and the vindictive spite of it would have made him feel better, however temporarily.

These days he’s too tired for that. He can admit it to himself even if he’d rather die than admit it to anyone else – he’s just jealous. Jealous and lonely and faintly pathetic, trying to ruin someone else’s happiness because they have something that’ll never be his, something he thinks he doesn’t so much want as _need_. He’s wanted (god has he _wanted_ , it’s the only thing he’s ever really been good at) sex and fame and money and he’s found them all lacking in some way; none of it is ever enough.

His mom suddenly sits down on the window seat beside him and nudges their shoulders together gently.

“Think it’ll be you next?” she says and he laughs, because he’s supposed to, because it’s a joke, because _he’s_ a joke. It stings a little, but it’s safer than the alternative.

The truth is, he can’t even imagine it.

He tries to picture himself in Liam’s place, with – well, it wouldn’t be a woman curled up in Richie’s lap, but he can’t build a convincing image of a guy in there either. Richie’s never had a _boyfriend_ , but he’s had flings and hook-ups and one-night-stands, doomed crushes on straight friends that broke his heart a little each time. He’s been attracted to strangers, co-workers, other celebrities…but no one fits, not even as a meaningless fantasy.

It’s almost as though the spot is saved for someone, like the hole in Richie’s soul is a specific shape, the shape of one person in particular. Which is stupid, because Richie’s pretty sure he’s never actually loved anyone like that, and he’s really fucking sure that no one has ever loved him like that either. He doesn’t think it’s the kind of thing he’d just forget.

It is like trying to dredge up a memory though, a memory that’s been altered or changed in some way, like he’s the hero in a sci-fi movie and the government has messed with his head so he forgets being abducted by aliens. But Richie’s life isn’t a sci-fi movie and he definitely wouldn’t be the hero if it was. At best he’s a tertiary character in someone else’s romantic drama – the closeted, middle-aged sad sack who dies in the third act to help the beautiful leads get together and learn their lesson about living life to the fullest.

His mom shifts beside him, and when he turns to look at her she’s holding out the cleaned-up wishbone, waving it at him enticingly. He summons a smile and takes one side, but then she lets go.

“I think we’re supposed to fight for it,” he says, and she laughs very softly.

“You keep it,” she says, kissing his cheek as she stands up. “Make it a good one.”

He thinks he used to do this as a kid – wish on birthday candles and dandelions and shooting stars. Believe in things.

He hands it over to his two nieces instead, watching as they take a side each and close their eyes.

These days, he doesn’t even have anything to wish for. 

_August 2016_

The heart monitor beeps and the clock on the wall ticks and the machine that’s helping Eddie breathe keeps up its steady rhythm of whooshing sounds, and Richie tries not to let the silence underneath it all drive him crazy.

“Come on Eds, don’t fucking do this to me. It’s been twenty-something years and we just…I just…fuck, I don’t even care what happens next, okay? Go back to New York, go back to your wife, you can tell me you never want to see me again, none of that matters. I just need you to wake up.”

Nothing changes. Nothing ever does. The clocks ticks. 11:11.

“You’re the only thing I ever, wished for, you know that? The whole fucking time. I wish you'd wake up.”

The clocks ticks. 11:12.

“…Rich?”

_February 2017_

Almost four full months out of Derry, and Richie hasn’t gone a single day without talking to Eddie at least once.

At first it had seemed like Richie might get his wish – complete with stipulations. Once Richie had stopped sobbing with hysterical relief at seeing Eddie’s bleary eyes open and hearing his scratchy voice, he’d let the nurses take over and slipped away to call the other Losers at the town house, causing them all to descend on the hospital like a flash mob and throw an impromptu, it’s-three-in-the-morning-but-we’re-really-glad-you’re-not-dead party in Eddie’s hospital room. Eventually the nurses had persuaded them to leave, with hugs and kisses and promises to be back once the sun was actually up, but they had seemed to accept that Richie was not going to be dragged away, leaving them alone in the eerily quiet room. Eddie had looked at him seriously and said, “I think I need to call my wife” and then promptly passed out again.

It had nearly been enough to send Richie running, but he’d gritted his teeth and accepted that Eddie alive and well was exactly what he’d wished for and more than he deserved all by itself – everything else was a bonus. In the end, Richie was glad he’d stuck around Derry long enough to hear Eddie telling his wife he was not going to immediately die without her care, to watch him throw his wedding ring into the Kenduskeag on their way out of Derry, to accept a slightly tentative hug from him before he boarded his plane back to New York to stay with Ben and Bev at Ben’s place in Manhattan.

And now here they are, halfway through February and Richie is _out_ and Eddie is most of the way through his divorce. Mike’s long-awaited trip to Florida got cut suspiciously short in favor of shacking up with Bill and there are eight Losers in the group chat instead of seven because Stan really lucked out meeting Patty and Ben’s going to propose any day now, Richie can tell all the way from the opposite coast.

Halfway through February, and Richie’s staring down at a text from Eddie like it’s written in Latin.

 **Eds:** What are you doing for Valentine’s day tomorrow?

He hesitates for a second; lets himself imagine a world where Eddie might instead ask, “what are _we_ doing for Valentine’s day?” and then eventually gets it together enough to respond.

 **Richie** : your mom

The response comes through instantly.

 **Eds:** never mind

Richie pushes away the giddy little laugh that’s already bubbling up in his chest, and presses the call button.

“Sorry Eds!” he says, the second he connects and hears Eddie sighing. “I thought it was the set-up to a joke.”

“No,” Eddie says sharply. “It was the set-up to a fucking Bizarroworld scenario where someone asks you a question and you give a straight fucking answer without being a jackass.”

Eddie’s end of the line is quiet, but Richie can hear typing and the distant trill of a phone ringing and the hum of voices somewhere in the distance.

“You still at work Eds? It’s late.”

“I know,” Eddie says, “I’ve got a big project to finish and we just found out that some dumbass in Sales really misrepresented – but, you know what, I called you because I’m sick of thinking about this bullshit.” There’s some rustling over the line, like Eddie’s moving papers around or shifting at his desk to get comfortable, and then the _click_ of a door closing. “I needed a distraction, that’s why I asked about tomorrow.” 

“Wait, do you actually want an answer?”

“Yes! Why else would I ask a question if I didn’t want the answer?”

“Well I’m sorry! A vested interest in my romantic life is a bit out of left field for you Eds.”

Eddie huffs a little, and Richie wonders if he’s not answering because Richie is, in fact, kind of right about this. Eddie had been as supportive as any of the other Losers when Richie had come out to them, but he had not been quite as quick to grill Richie on his love life, past or present. Richie wonders if some part of Eddie is uncomfortable with the idea of his best friend being gay, if he’s one of those people that’s okay with it in theory but not when it applies to someone in their real-world bubble. But then he remembers Eddie’s soft eyes and sincere smile on his little phone screen the night after he’d come out on Twitter, when Eddie had told him doing it over social media was tacky but then told him quite seriously it was also brave, and then he thinks maybe it’s something else.

It’s the not knowing _what_ that’s making his brain itch.

To be fair to Eddie, it’s not like Richie’s been overeager to share the scant and embarrassing details of his romantic past with the guy he’s been tortuously in love with for the better part of thirty years, so maybe it’s the glass house Richie shouldn’t be throwing stones in.

“Fine,” says Eddie, eventually. “This is me asking as a serious question – what are you doing for Valentine’s day tomorrow? You have a date?”

It’s not so much the question itself as the tone with which Eddie asks it that catches Richie right in the heart; he sounds pretty fucking sure the answer will be yes. He asks it like an assumption, rather than a question, and while there’s a base part of Richie’s brain that finds it weirdly flattering, it also means he has to shove down the sudden and powerful urge to _reassure_ Eddie that he doesn’t.

“I do not have a date,” he says eventually, in a reasonably convincing tone of calm.

“Really?” Eddie says, not even bothering to conceal his surprise, and Richie snorts a soft little laugh.

“You are definitely overestimating my market value here Eds,” he says, and Eddie tuts.

“Shut up, shut the fuck up with that shit. And _don’t_ call me Eds.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Richie sighs. “Edward my dear, my love, my precious little spaghetti noodle—”

“Stop! My god, why do I even try and talk to you about things—”

“Why _are_ you asking about this?”

“Because,” he sighs, a little sharply. “Ben and Bev left this morning, they’re spending a few days in some fancy hotel in Vermont and I mean…not that it’s not a nice change to have the house to myself and not have to walk in on them making out on the kitchen counters—”

Richie interrupts him to laugh, and Eddie starts spluttering indignantly.

“No, don’t laugh! Do not! Don’t find amusement in the sad state of my life!” He’s squawking like a pissed-off parrot but he’s laughing too, warming Richie right the way through.

“So, what Eds? You called the only other single Loser? Misery loves company and all that?”

“I was sort of planning to live vicariously through your romantic life actually. I genuinely did think you would have a date, I was all geared up to tease you about it. This is very disappointing.”

“Well, teasing and then disappointing is my speciality,” he says, just to hear Eddie try not to laugh and fail. “I’m not going to make any other self-deprecating jokes even though it’s my jam, because I know you’re just going to go all screechy and sincere on me. But no, I do not have a date.”

“Well, I guess you do now.”

“I – wait, what?”

“I’ll be your date,” he says, in a weird, tense voice. “I mean, not _actually_ , I’m three-thousand miles away,” he says, as if this needs clarifying, as if Richie doesn’t feel every one of those miles every day. “But like, you can buy a bottle of wine and I’ll buy a bottle of wine and we can order takeout and watch the same movie and face time and just…you know…pretend.”

Eddie’s obviously having a rough time; first Valentine’s day after leaving his wife, still in the middle of a messy divorce, about to spend the evening alone. He needs a friend, and for Eddie’s sins in a past life probably, Richie is still his best friend, and Richie _is_ the only other Loser that’s single so it makes sense that Eddie would call him up for this.

The idea still makes him fucking brainless for a second though, and Eddie gives a long, slow sigh in the ensuing silence.

“Sorry,” he says, in a quiet voice. “I’m being a pushy asshole, aren’t I? We don’t actually have to do this, I just thought—”

“No!” Richie says, too insistent and too loud, but there’s no way he’s going to let Eddie think that Richie _doesn’t_ want to spend fucking Valentine’s day with him, even if it’s a purely platonic not-a-real-date from thousands of miles away. “No, I want to. It’s a great idea, Eds.”

“Okay,” Eddie says, his voice still a little subdued. “Okay, good. Thanks Richie, I appreciate it, I really do.”

“Well,” he says, thrown by the sincerity in Eddie’s usually sharp voice, “ _you_ asked me on a date Spagheds, which means I get to pick the movie. You may live to regret this whole conversation.”

*

“Everyone in this movie is a garbage person,” Eddie says, from Richie’s laptop screen balanced next to him on the arm of the couch. He’s scowling at something – presumably his television – off-screen, and Richie smiles fondly at his profile.

“It’s a rom-com classic, I can’t believe you haven’t seen it.”

“It’s a fucking Christmas movie, for a start, it’s not even about Valentine’s day!”

“Yeah, I think I forgot that part.”

“It’s not even romantic! Alan Rickman is cheating on Emma Thompson, Colin Firth is just straight up seducing his housekeeper who doesn’t speak English and the prime minister needs the world’s best HR department on his ass like, _yesterday_! It’s fucked _up_ , I _hate_ these people!”

He looks sort of genuinely mad about it, flushed pink high on his cheeks and down what little Richie can make out of his chest given that he’s sitting there in a fucking tank top, like that’s allowed, like the sight of his pointy collar bones isn’t making Richie’s mouth water. But his eyes are also gleaming, and he’s gesturing enthusiastically with his wine glass, and Richie thinks the best decision he’s made all night was picking a movie he knew would piss Eddie off. He looks like he’s having the time of his life and Richie’s middle-aged stomach muscles are _killing him_ after laughing for the better part of two hours, harder than he’s laughed in years.

Once the end credits start to roll, Richie flicks his television off and Eddie must have done the same because the angle of his screen is different now; facing Richie head on with his hair all scruffy and eyes glossy and liquid with sleepiness and alcohol, and Richie’s palms itch with the need to reach right through the screen and touch him. He’s smiling sleepily and it’s bringing out the little dimples in his cheeks, and god-fucking-dammit, how is it fair that he grew up so hot? He was cute as a kid and Richie remembers vividly the prickly-hot sensations all over his skin when Eddie would grab at him while swimming in the quarry as half-dressed teenagers but _now_ , forty-one-year-old Eddie looks like a movie star from old Hollywood – all intense eyes and angular jaw and classically handsome face. 

There’s no way Richie can be objective about Eddie’s attractiveness, but he’s pretty sure it wouldn’t have been that difficult for Eddie to find a real date for Valentine’s day. Richie better soak up all the not-dates he can; there’s no way Eddie’s staying single for long.

“You really didn’t have a date tonight?” Eddie says suddenly, looking at Richie with his eyes slightly narrowed in suspicion. “I started getting worried that you blew off something good because you felt sorry for me.”

“I solemnly swear I have not been blowing anyone—”

“Richie!” Eddie laughs, flushing even pinker than he was anyway. “You know what I mean.”

“I know,” he says. “I promise I didn’t turn down anything good.”

“But you did turn _something_ down?” Eddie prompts, his eyebrows raised slightly in interest. Richie shrugs.

“I mean…sort of. Not for you though, I already said no before you called me.”

“Said no to who?”

“Steve,” Richie says, and then laughs when Eddie’s eyebrows _fly_ up his forehead. “No, _god_ , not like that. Steve is a jackass sometimes but he does have _some_ standards.”

“Richie—”

“I _meant_ ,” Richie presses on, because his self-deprecating jokes do seem genuinely distressing to Eddie, and he keeps meaning to try and reign it in. “He wanted to set me up with someone for like, the good PR, you know? He thought after coming out it would make me look better to actually be seen dating someone.”

“So, what? He was just going to pimp you out for likes on Instagram?” Eddie looks faintly outraged at the suggestion, and Richie didn’t realize until this particular moment that he could be attracted to someone for their _eyebrows_ , but apparently being in love makes him insane.

“I mean,” he laughs, “sort of? It wouldn’t actually be a date though, just dinner and a very chaste kiss for a conveniently placed photographer. No funny business.”

And no _fun_ , because Steve would undoubtedly pick someone professional, someone who would sign an NDA, someone who would be blandly good-looking and who would not constantly call Richie an asshole or bitch about his outfit choice or scan the menu with an expression that would suggest it was deliberately trying to kill him. Someone who would definitely not laugh at Richie’s jokes or match him jab-for-jab or smile in that crooked, dimple-flashing way that would make Richie’s stupid heart do stupid somersaults.

“But you said no?”

“Yes, I did. I told him I would rather fight a shape-shifting, interdimensional dancing clown monster than go on a date with any guy he chose for me, but weirdly he didn’t seem to understand that I was speaking from experience.”

Eddie tuts and mutters disapprovingly, and Richie pulls a stupid face to get him to laugh, and doesn’t tell Eddie the truth. What he’d actually told Steve was that he didn’t see the point in shattering his life to pieces only to go and rebuild it out of bits that were just as fake, which was sincere enough that Steve had immediately let it go and not brought it up again. But Richie’s tipsy and Eddie’s being all warm and soft around the edges, and there’s a chance if Richie tells him something that sincere, he won’t be able to hold back the full truth – that there’s only one person Richie could conceivably go on a date with and not have it feel gut-wrenchingly hollow.

“What about you Eds?”

“What about me? I definitely don’t want to fight anymore dancing clown monsters.”

“No, I mean…” He swallows awkwardly, but he’s got to ask, got to get used to the idea sometime. “No one you’d rather be spending Valentine’s with?”

“Well,” Eddie’s mouth twists a little awkwardly, and for a horrifying moment Richie thinks he’s going to launch into a passionate tirade about the person he would rather be spending the evening with. Instead he says, “I’m still in the middle of my shitty divorce, dating isn’t exactly a priority right now.”

“No,” says Richie, trying not to be relieved. “No I guess not. How _is_ your shitty divorce going, by the way?”

“Shitty,” says Eddie, but he’s sort of smiling again. “No, not as bad as I thought it would, I guess. Bev’s lawyer is dealing with it for me and she’s…well…kind of terrifying. Plus there’s…I mean…Myra really wanted to make it difficult but…” He looks so uncomfortable that for a second Richie’s tempted to change the subject just so that Eddie doesn’t have to finish a sentence he clearly doesn’t want to, just so Richie doesn’t have to hear it. But then Eddie squares his shoulders a little bit, his mouth going thin and determined. “I had a lot of texts and voicemails from her while I was in Derry and from when I first got back to the city that…that don’t really make her look that good. She was threatening to like…clear out all our bank accounts and cut up my passport and loads of other shit so I couldn’t get away from her.”

“Jesus Christ…”

“I know,” Eddie nods grimly, and Richie had learned some uncomfortable things about Eddie’s marriage while they had been in Derry, but he didn’t realize things had been _that_ bad. “I didn’t really want to even talk about it, but my lawyer said it might make her back down a bit and she ended up being right. It should be done before the end of the month. I think it helps a little that Myra’s getting both cars and the house and our investment portfolio as well,” he says, with a humourless little laugh.

“What are _you_ getting?” Richie asks, but the smile that lights Eddie’s face is answer enough really.

“I’m getting my life back.”

They talk for a little more, until both bottles of wine are empty and Richie’s feeling so sleepy and warm and safe that he says something stupid.

“You should’ve come out here.” His face is pressed against one hand, elbow propped up on the back of the sofa, and his voice comes out a little muffled, but unfortunately not muffled enough to disguise what he’s just said. Eddie cocks his head. “For this, could’ve done it for real,” he says, thinking he might as well run with it now. He doesn’t even know what he means; done _what_ for real? Spent Valentine’s together? Gone on a date? If Eddie were here right now, would he be pressed up against Richie on the same sofa, real and close and touchable? “You still could,” he says, again stupidly.

“Could what?”

“Come out here.”

Eddie laughs softly, his eyes heavy-lidded and fond.

“I think you’re leaving it a bit late Rich,” he says. “Valentine’s is over in like half an hour, and teleportation is not on my list of superpowers.”

“No, I mean,” Richie sits up straighter, scrubbing a hand over his face and dislodging his glasses in the process. “I mean, you could come out here for like…to stay. Permanently.”

“Wait, what?” The hazy expression on Eddie’s face clears a little, and he squints at Richie suspiciously. “Are you saying…I should _move_ to California?”

In for a penny…

“Yes,” Richie says, decisively. “What’s even in New York Eds, except rats and roaches? Bill and Mike are here—”

_I’m here._

“—and Ben and Bev split their time between New York and LA—”

_And I’m out here and god, I still need you._

“—and it’s three-thousand miles away from fucking Derry—”

_And right now you’re three-thousand miles away from me, and I think it’s killing me._

“—and you left your wife and moved out of your house so…so what’s left in New York?”

“Well…” Eddie purses his lips, and he actually looks like he’s thinking about it. He’s not yelling or calling Richie a dumbass, he looks thoughtful and wistful and Richie’s heart is going like a hummingbird’s wings. “I mean…I do still have a job here.”

“Your company has an LA office,” he says, and then immediately wants to punch himself in the face. A slow smile spreads over Eddie’s mouth and his eyebrows quirk upwards again; Eddie can’t teleport and Richie can’t reverse time. Life really isn’t fair.

“And you know that, how?” Eddie grins at him obnoxiously.

“Bev told me,” Richie says moodily, and he can _feel_ his stupid face heating up. “You must’ve told me. Pennywise told me. I saw it in the deadlights.” Eddie’s giggling, high-pitched and snorty, the memory of his twelve-year-old self swimming to the surface Richie’s subconscious to set a bittersweet ache blossoming in his chest. “I looked it up, okay? I just…” He gives in; a sigh, the truth. “I just miss you is all.”

“I know,” Eddie says, surprisingly soft. “I miss you too.”

“I wish—” But he stops, closes his eyes and shakes his head. He made a wish and he got it granted, he got it granted with fucking bells on, because Eddie woke up and went back to New York but he calls Richie all the time and still tells him to shut up twelve times a day but still laughs at all his jokes and still makes him feel dizzy and fluttery and off-kilter. What fucking right has Richie got to wish for anything more?

Besides, there’s nothing to wish on now – no birthday candles, no stars, no dandelions. They aren’t in Derry anymore and even if they were, the clown is dead for real this time, so no more magic left for them back there either.

Just Richie, wishing with all his stupid selfish heart for things he doesn’t deserve.

“I know Rich,” Eddie says, in a whisper. “Me too.”

_March 2017_

The evening before Richie’s forty-first birthday, Eddie looks at him from the other side of his couch, the flickering light of a birthday candle in between them, and tells him to make a wish.

It’s a Tuesday night. All the Losers are out in LA for Richie’s birthday tomorrow, but everyone else is staying in the big house in Santa Monica that was Bill and Audra’s and now solidly seems to be Bill and Mike’s. Stan and Patty arrived yesterday and Ben and Bev the day before, after hanging around in San Francisco for a week or so, scoping out a new office for Ben’s firm and taking obnoxiously gorgeous selfies.

Eddie had turned up out of the blue on Thursday afternoon with a suitcase, a carry-on bag and two tickets to a Cure gig at the Lakeside Arena on Friday that Richie had mentioned a couple of days after Valentine’s day, and then forgotten about.

Richie had stared down at Eddie, appearing out of nowhere on his doorstep, ruffled and unshaven and grinning wickedly at the stupid look on Richie’s face and thought, _I wish…_

He had almost dropped his overpriced beer on Friday night when the first few bars of _Lovesong_ coincided with Eddie sliding his hand into Richie’s, and he thought, _I wish…_

He blows the candle out and Eddie stares at him as the little tendrils of smoke curl up between them, his brown eyes glossy and endless in the dim glow from Richie’s wall lamps. Without looking away from Richie’s face, Eddie leans to the side slightly to place the giant cupcake in his hand onto the coffee table, and when he straightens up again, he brings his hand to his mouth to carefully suck a little stray frosting from the tip of his thumb, and Richie tracks the motion desperately, his eyes lingering too long on the purse of Eddie’s lips, the little flick of his pink tongue.

“What d’you wish for?” Eddie says, his voice almost a whisper, and Richie’s afraid to answer, to move, to _breathe_ in case the moment shatters and Eddie looks away. God, he can’t bear it when Eddie looks away.

He looks so touchable is the thing, so soft and comfortable curled up on Richie’s sofa. He flew three-thousand miles for Richie’s birthday, cooked dinner and bought expensive champagne and they ate and drank the whole thing in PJs and bare feet, like Eddie _lives_ here, like he isn’t leaving again in a few days.

Then Eddie raises his eyebrows – just a little, an enquiry rather than a challenge – and Richie thinks suddenly that there’s only really one thing he wants, one thing he needs, one thing he’s been hopelessly wishing for his whole, desperate life.

He leans in and brushes his lips against Eddie’s – a ghost of a kiss that ends when Eddie inhales sharply and Richie immediately pulls away, his vision zeroing in on Eddie’s pale, shocked face.

“Shit...” Richie puts a shaking hand to his mouth, like he can press the memory of one fleeting, stolen kiss into his skin and keep it fresh forever. Then a tidal wave of guilt crashes over him for trying to hold on to a kiss Eddie didn’t even _want_ , and he edges towards the arm of the sofa until he’s pressed right against it. “Shit, Eddie I’m—”

He stands up. Eddie tracks every movement with his wide, wary eyes and Richie backs away from him, weak-kneed and clumsy, bashing into the coffee table as he scrambles to make an escape, but then Eddie’s reaching out to grab him around the wrist.

“Rich...”

For a second they’re frozen; Eddie still on the sofa with his fingers pressed against Richie’s pulse and Richie on his feet, ready to put as much space between them as he can because he’s weak, and he wishes, and Eddie tastes of frosting and Champagne and Richie wants to _devour_ him.

“Is...” Eddie swallows. “Is that what you wished for?”

Richie doesn’t trust himself to speak; he nods slowly, and Eddie gets to his feet so fast that Richie closes his eyes in preparation for Eddie to hate him, to scream at him, to walk out of the house and Richie’s life and never walk back in.

But Eddie doesn’t release his grip on Richie’s wrist, and a second later he’s sliding both of his hands into both of Richie’s, tangling their fingers together and tugging until Richie opens his watery eyes, and Eddie smiles at him.

“It’s okay,” he says softly.

“Is it?” says Richie, with a soft little noise that he intends to be a laugh, but comes out too bitter and sharp to really be convincing. Eddie lets go of his hands.

“Yes.” His voice is serious, and then his hands are making a slow but determined path up Richie’s arms and across the span of his shoulders until they come to rest on the back of his neck, his fingers threading gently through Richie’s hair. Then Eddie’s pulling Richie down just as he’s going up on his tiptoes and they meet somewhere in the middle for a kiss that’s clumsy and off-centre and so sweet Richie’s dizzy with it, breaking away with a gasp and then diving right back in again. His hands are still shaking when he works up the courage to rest them gently on Eddie’s hips, but then Eddie makes a little hum of appreciation against his mouth, the same kind of noise he had made when he had tried full-fat dairy ice-cream for the first time since the 90s – like Richie is something _delicious_ – and the last of Richie’s fragile self-control evaporates.

He winds his arms around Eddie’s narrow torso and grips him tight, one hand pressed against the small of his back and the other between his sloping shoulders, right where the blade of a monster’s claw had struck him and pierced him and failed to kill him, the scar visible to Richie’s fingertips through the thin material of his t-shirt. He nips at Eddie’s bottom lip gently, making Eddie’s fingers tighten reflexively where they’re still threaded through Richie’s hair, drawing a desperate little whine from somewhere deep in Richie’s chest. Eddie smiles against his mouth, breaking the kiss just long enough to take a gasping little breath before he’s tugging at Richie’s hair deliberately, his fingers curled into fists as he uses his grip to haul Richie back down. Then Richie’s tentatively pressing his tongue against Eddie’s sealed lips, and Eddie immediately drops his jaw to allow Richie to lick into his mouth, the kiss turning hot and messy as Richie slides his hands down to grab at Eddie’s ass and press their bodies together desperately.

Eddie’s _kissing_ him; kissing him like he’s thought about it before, moving with purpose and confidence and intent, like he _wants_ Richie.

They need to stop. They need to _talk_ about whatever the fuck they’re doing, about what they want and what it means and what happens in the morning when all the candles are out and the Champagne’s worn off and Eddie sees Richie clearly again, and all Richie can think is, _this is a terrible idea._

Then Eddie’s moving, loosening his grip on Richie’s hair to grab at his waist instead, digging his fingers into the flesh around Richie’s middle and shifting around until he’s got one muscular thigh in between both of Richie’s. Eddie presses upwards and Richie grinds down against him, and Richie isn’t thinking anything anymore, because he can feel the thick line of Eddie’s cock pressing against his hip and Eddie’s _hard_. He’s hard just from kissing Richie and if this is all catches fire in the morning then Richie’s going to enjoy it while it lasts.

Richie grabs Eddie by the hips and turns them around, backing him forcefully against the wall and swallowing the little noises escaping from Eddie’s mouth, turning rapidly from surprise to approval when Richie slides his hands down Eddie’s thighs and uses the wall as leverage to lift him up. He’s surprisingly heavy, but he immediately wraps his legs around Richie’s waist and Richie gets his hands under Eddie’s ass instead and Eddie pushes away from the wall. Eddie’s cock is pressed against the soft give of his stomach, and Richie’s _this_ close to losing his mind about it, so he sways dramatically on the spot, pretending to lose his grip on Eddie and half-dropping him to the ground before catching him again, grinning when Eddie punches his arm softly.

“Stop being a _dick_ ,” he says, but then he’s leaning down to bite at Richie’s throat, soothing the sting with his tongue and drawing a shudder all the way down Richie’s spine. Richie tightens his grip and carries Eddie out of the sitting room and into the hallway, kicking his bedroom door open clumsily and stepping over the threshold.

The air is cooler in here, away from the kitchen and the big, west-facing windows that catch every sunbeam, and there are goose bumps running all over Richie’s arms, the hairs at the nape of his neck beginning to prickle. Eddie pulls away slightly; the room is dark, brightened only slightly by the light spilling in from the hallway and the moonlight through the half-closed drapes, and his handsome, angular face is all lines and shadows in the gloom. His eyes are dark and liquid as he stares down at Richie, resting his hands on Richie’s face and running his thumbs in a soothing rhythm along the curve of his cheekbones, but there’s something in Eddie’s gaze that Richie can’t face yet, so he steps further into the room and drops Eddie down onto the bed. Richie waits to be scolded but Eddie just looks at him, his heavy-lidded eyes tracing the lines of Richie’s body indulgently until it feels like his skin is on fire, and then he’s crawling onto the bed after him, pressing their mouths together as hungrily as he’s pressing Eddie’s body into the mattress. He runs his hands down Eddie’s arms, letting his fingertips linger over Eddie’s toned biceps and freckly forearms and bony wrists until their fingers are tangled together, and he lifts Eddie’s arms above his head and pins them to the pillow. He expects Eddie to fight him, maybe, to pull his hands out of Richie’s grip or snap at him about being manhandled, but Eddie just presses up against him, pushing his tongue into Richie’s mouth along with a desperate little moan. Richie shifts slightly so that their hips line up better, and then he’s got Eddie’s hard cock pressed against his own, nothing between them but a few layers of thin cotton, and he grinds them together fiercely.

Eddie breaks away from him with a gasp, and then they’re not so much kissing as just panting into each other’s open mouths, their bodies rocking together in a steady rhythm, the thin wooden headboard of Richie’s bed knocking against the wall every time he thrusts down against Eddie.

Then Richie’s releasing his grip to slide his hands underneath the hem of Eddie’s t-shirt, pushing it up and up until Eddie gets the message, sitting up a little and stripping it off easily. He throws it onto the floor at the side of the bed and lies back down again, before raising an eyebrow at Richie.

“What?”

He’s still panting a little, and even in the shivery twilight Richie can see the patches of colour high on his cheeks and all the way down his torso, the gentle tapering of his waist highlighting the definition across his chest and stomach.

“Fuck... _Eddie..._ ”

“ _What?_ ”

“How the fuck do you look like this?”

“Like what?” Eddie says, the corner of his mouth quirking up in something that might be a smile. “Hideously scarred? I thought you’d remember how that happened.”

“That is _not_ what I fucking meant,” he mutters, and before he can talk himself out of it, he drops a soft, fleeting kiss to the jagged pink line between Eddie’s pectorals, trying really fucking hard to ignore the tender little, “oh” that falls from Eddie’s mouth. “I meant _these_ ,” he says, continuing his journey across Eddie’s body with his mouth, pressing kisses along Eddie’s ribcage and then down his stomach to his jutting hipbones, that prominent arrow of muscle pointing invitingly downwards. “You have abs Eddie, why the fuck do you need abs when you’re forty-one?”

“Uh, to hold my fucking organs in place, doofus. Why, what do you use yours for?”

“Very little Eds, as you’ll see if I still have the nerve to take my shirt off now.” He runs his tongue along the waistband of Eddie’s pants, making him shiver and buck his hips upwards, and Richie sucks at the skin under his bellybutton.

“Quit being a weeny,” Eddie says, reaching around to grab at the bottom of Richie’s shirt and tugging it up to his shoulder blades, and Richie ducks forward to allow Eddie to pull it over his head, lifting one arm at a time and biting back a grin at Eddie’s impatient sigh. “Are you gonna get involved at all, or do you want me to just undress you myself?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, finally getting the t-shirt all the way off and sending it flying across the room like it’s wronged him personally. There’s a little space between them, Richie braced on his forearms, resting by Eddie’s head on the pillow, and Eddie trails a careful finger along Richie’s hairy chest and down his stomach, and then he stops and suddenly twists away out of Richie’s arms. Richie has to fight back against the instinct to grab for him, to hold him in place and not let go, but then he sees Eddie reaching out for the small lamp on the bedside table, clicking it on and illuminating the room with a soft, amber light. Then he’s back, back in the bed and back in Richie’s arms and he smiles as he pushes Richie’s sweaty hair back from his forehead tenderly.

“I wanna look at you,” he says quietly, and Richie can’t answer that, because the only answer he could give would be the truth – _I never wanna look at anything else_ – and he doesn’t know yet if Eddie wants to hear that. So he crashes his mouth back against Eddie’s, and Eddie resumes his previous exploration of Richie’s body but he’s not tentative this time, his hands are steady and sure as he slides his palms down Richie’s chest and squeezes his hips and then dips lower to run his thumb along the shaft of Richie’s cock. His hips buck forwards instinctively into Eddie’s hand, and Eddie changes the angle of his wrist to cup Richie’s cock firmly, kneading with the heel of his hand while Richie whines and shudders against him.

Then Richie breaks the kiss, staring down at Eddie’s flushed face and pink, spit-shined lips, his hair damp with sweat and starting to fall over his forehead, to curl around his ears. His pupils are blown so wide his eyes are ink-pool black in the half-light and when he smiles lazily up at Richie the shadows carve his dimples deep into his face. He’s _gorgeous_ ; handsome and happy and horny in Richie’s bed.

Richie gets his thumbs under the waistband of Eddie’s boxer shorts and Eddie helpfully lifts his hips so that Richie can slip them over his ass, sitting up fully so that he can slide them all the way down Eddie’s legs and drop them over the side of the bed. He gets his hands loosely around Eddie’s ankles for a second, running his thumbs over the prominent ball of his joints, before he tightens his grip and spreads Eddie’s legs, shuffling over to lie down in between his knees. His glasses are starting to fog up as he presses sticky kisses against the dewy skin of Eddie’s toned thighs, and Eddie’s breathing turns quick and gasping. Richie reaches up and wraps a hand around Eddie’s cock, hard and pink and already starting to bead with moisture at the tip.

Eddie thrusts up into Richie’s hand with a little whine, and Richie tightens his fingers, pumping slowly up and down and continuing up Eddie’s inner thigh with his mouth until his nose is buried in the groove of Eddie’s groin.

“Eds,” he whispers, his lips pressed against Eddie’s skin. Richie removes his hand from Eddie’s cock and sticks his thumb in his own mouth; when he pulls it out it’s shiny with spit and he runs it up Eddie’s shaft and along the sensitive underside of the head. “Eddie I’m gonna...can I...?”

“Yes,” Eddie gasps. “Yes, fuck, whatever you want Rich.”

Richie pulls up slightly, getting a hand around each of Eddie’s thighs and squeezing, just to feel the firm swell of muscle beneath his fingers. He takes a second to lick a long, hot stripe up the shaft of Eddie’s cock, swirling his tongue around the head, before taking a breath and swallowing Eddie down.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Eddie breathes, and both of his hands land on Richie’s head, his fingers threading through Richie’s tangled curls as Richie hollows his cheeks to suck at Eddie in earnest. Eddie’s gentle, he doesn’t pull and he doesn’t try to force Richie further onto his cock, and Richie thinks fleetingly he wouldn’t mind if Eddie did, if Eddie wanted to be a little rough with him, to take whatever he needed from Richie.

He uses his tongue to massage the underside of Eddie’s cock, one hand wrapping around the base as Richie begins to bob his head up and down with purpose and before long Eddie’s gasping and writhing beneath him, his hands flying from Richie’s hair to scrabble frantically at his shoulders.

“Rich, I’m gonna...Richie you need to...I can’t...” He’s panting, pushing at Richie weakly, but Richie just reaches up to grab at Eddie’s hands and plant them firmly back on his head, before wrapping his own hands around Eddie’s waist and pulling him closer, deeper into his mouth. Eddie’s fingers tighten in Richie’s hair like he can’t help himself and this time he does pull, _hard_ , and it sends little sparks of lightning all the way down Richie’s body until his toes are curling and he’s moaning around Eddie’s cock, and with one aborted thrust upwards and a broken little shout of Richie’s name, Eddie comes down his throat.

Richie pulls away, panting, and leans his face back down onto Eddie’s thigh, his mouth hanging open against the sweat-damp skin. Eddie’s hands are still on his head, but gentle again, stroking the knotted hair back from Richie’s face carefully, before sighing his name in such a blissed-out voice it shoots right down to Richie’s cock, untouched this whole time. He’s so hard it’s almost painful, trapped in his boxers, the fabric slick and wet where Richie is still grinding mindlessly against the bed, and he reaches down to get a clumsy hand around himself. His ears are still ringing with the sound of Eddie moaning his name, he can still taste Eddie fresh on his tongue – there’s no way this’ll take long. But Richie’s barely started to move before Eddie’s grabbing at him urgently, wrapping his fingers around Richie’s bicep and squeezing hard.

“Don’t,” he says, his voice still shaky and weak. “Don’t do that.”

Richie immediately whips his hand out of his boxers in panic; adrenaline’s fading, the high is wearing off, the whole thing is probably gross to Eddie again – either that or the fact that it’s _Richie_ lying in between his legs with his hand down his pants has finally hit him.

But then Eddie’s tugging him back up the bed so they're level again and kissing him, open mouthed and slow.

“Let me,” he whispers against Richie’s lips. “I want to do it, let me do it for you.” He pushes Richie’s boxers down and Richie kicks them aside, and then Eddie’s got one hand on the side of his neck and the other around his aching cock, jerking him slowly at first but speeding up to match Richie’s panting breathes and desperate thrusts into his fist. He’s so close, and he has a moment of panic when he wonders if Eddie’s going to hate him for making a mess of that gorgeous stomach, but then Eddie’s pressing hot, wet kisses up the side of his throat.

“Come on Rich, I want you to,” he murmurs right in Richie’s ear. “I want you all over me.”

Richie buries his face against Eddie’s neck and spills over his hand and chest and abs with a painful sob, before collapsing on top of him, breathing shakily against the skin of his throat. Eddie strokes the back of Richie’s head with his clean hand, threading his fingers through the tangles and scratching gently at Richie’s scalp, before shooting out the other arm to grab at the box of tissues on Richie’s night stand. He tugs a few free, wiping his hand and cleaning up the worst of the mess from his stomach and chest before running both hands up and down Richie’s back soothingly. Richie presses his face tighter against Eddie’s neck and swallows painfully, but then Eddie says, “Rich?” in a voice so soft and careful that something inside Richie splinters.

He pulls away from Eddie quickly, wiping at his face with shaking hands. His stomach swirls with familiar nausea, the pressure in his throat and jaw letting him know he’s starting to panic but he swallows it desperately. If he throws up all over this bed there’s no way Eddie’s ever going to speak to him again.

“Richie, what’s wrong?” Eddie sits up with him, his hands on Richie’s arms and shoulders and then his face, trying to get Richie to look at him, fighting when Richie tries to turn away. Richie’s breath catches in his throat and then he sobs again, shoving his glasses up into his hair to drive the heels of his hands into his eyes.

Maybe when he looks again he'll be alone, and it’ll all have been a weird dream and he'll never have to deal with the consequences of what they've just done.

He puts his glasses back and Eddie’s still there, his eyes huge with concern in his pale face, and Richie reaches up to grab Eddie’s hands from where they’re still resting on his shoulders and move them away.

“We shouldn’t have done that,” Richie says, his voice hoarse and broken.

“You didn’t...” Eddie swallows; Richie tracks the motion all the way down his throat. “You didn’t want to?”

“No, I did! I did want to, I do... _fuck_...” Richie trails off. He’s crying again, and he swipes the tears from his face impatiently, keeping his gaze fixed on his fingers tangled in the ruined bed sheets. “I do want to, I want _you_ , that’s the problem.”

“Why’s that a problem?”

“Because...because this being a one-off is—”

“You don’t want to do it again?” Eddie says, and Richie looks up at him properly – he’s smiling, a little tentatively, like he’s not sure of his footing in the conversation and doesn’t want to make the wrong move.

“No, Eddie you don’t get it, I can’t...it can’t be like that. I don’t know whether this was the Champagne—”

“Wait...what?”

“—or whether this is some kind of sexuality crisis for you—”

“Richie, what the fuck?”

“—or if you were just _bored_ —”

“Rich!”

“—but I can’t do this with you. When it comes to you, nothing about me is casual, okay?”

“Rich, what the fuck are you talking about?”

Eddie’s face is ferocious; confused and angry and watery-eyed and Richie leans into him one last time, resting his forehead against Eddie’s bony collar and breathing in the scent of his skin and his sweat and his citrus shampoo.

Richie tries to imagine it – Eddie leaving in a few days to go back to New York, flying out west every other month or so when he’s lonely or horny or bored, sleeping with Richie until he finds someone better – someone to keep. It’s agony, the idea of having part of Eddie, having him for a while, having Eddie’s body and time and desire even if he’ll never have his love, not the way Richie wants. Far better to have never known the taste of Champagne out of Eddie’s mouth than to have to remember it when it’s someone else’s pleasure.

The worst part – the part that sits in the slime-black centre of Richie’s soul where he hates himself – knows that he’ll say yes. If it’s all Eddie ever wants of him – if it has to stay a secret, if Eddie sleeps with other people when he’s back home, if it breaks Richie’s stupid heart in the end – he’s still going to agree.

Eddie’s arms come to rest around Richie’s shoulders and there’s no lust in his touch now; he’s hugging Richie tight and tender, rocking them both gently as Richie presses his mouth to Eddie’s throat in a messy facsimile of a kiss, and then takes a deep breath.

“Rich?” Eddie prompts.

“I’m in love with you,” he whispers, a secret told right against Eddie’s skin. The rocking motion ceases, Eddie frozen in his arms.

“What?”

Richie tries to pull away but Eddie loosens his hold just enough for Richie to put a few inches between them; when Richie opens his eyes they’re still practically nose-to-nose.

“I’m in love with you,” he says, and his voice barely even wavers this time, clear and steady, like it’s a secret his tongue’s been dying to tell the whole time. “I always have been, since we were kids. After last summer, when we all left Derry again and went home I thought...I thought maybe it was just leftover feelings from when we were young, you know? I thought maybe it was just amnesia bullshit tricking me into thinking I was still...that I still...” He laughs, bitterly, and shakes his head. “Anyway, I was wrong, it turns out. I’m still so fucking in love with you, and I was never going to tell you because I never thought...I don’t know what this is Eds, I don’t know what we’ve just done, but you’re going back to New York in a few days and I think...” He wipes the tears from under his glasses with the heels of his hands. “God, _fuck_ , I already miss you so much but now...I don’t know what I’m supposed to do without you, I don’t think I can just—”

“I did it all wrong,” Eddie says suddenly, in a broken ghost of his usual fog-horn voice.

“What?” 

“We should have talked,” says Eddie, his voice starting to pitch towards frantic. “We should have…I wanted to _talk_ but you kissed me and I…I got carried away.”

“I can see that,” Richie says bitterly, finally pulling himself out of Eddie’s arms. He turns away from and reaches onto the floor for his abandoned t-shirt, feeling suddenly exposed and embarrassed, wanting nothing more than to _hide_.

“No!” Eddie reaches for him, his hands landing around Richie’s forearms and tugging him back into the bed. “I didn’t mean… _fuck_ , this is _wrong._ ”

He lets go of Richie abruptly, his hands dropping down onto the bed covers and his mouth a thin line in his unhappy face, and he suddenly throws himself out of the bed.

“Eds?”

Eddie doesn’t respond; he’s out of the door and into the hallway before Richie’s can do anything to stop him, the room silent and seeming that much darker.

“Shit…” Richie wipes his eyes again, pressing in with the heels of his hands until little spots of light start dancing behind his eyelids. “ _Shit_.”

What have they _done_? Richie finds all his best friends again after more than twenty-years of soul-crushing loneliness and all it takes is Eddie Kaspbrak asking him to make a wish and Richie’s burning his newfound happiness to the ground. He misses Eddie every fucking day, and Richie’s pretty sure there’s a part of his soul that’s always going to belong to him, but maybe eventually Richie could have learned to live with it, loving Eddie quietly and from a distance – better that than having every scrap of Eddie stolen out of his brain by a monster.

But how do they come back from this? Now they’ve kissed, now Richie knows what his name sounds like in Eddie’s mouth while he comes, now he knows exactly how it feels to have Eddie beneath him, shaking and desperate. Does Eddie even _want_ to come back from this? He’d said it was wrong – is he ashamed, embarrassed? Is he ever going to be able to be in the same room as Richie again?

Richie’s got one foot on the carpet, ready to go after Eddie even it means watching him packing all his things back into his suitcase, when Eddie reappears. He must have been in the guest room because he’s wearing a clean pair of sleep shorts and a yellow t-shirt, shifting anxiously on the spot in the doorway but he’s not dressed as if he’s leaving, so Richie tries for a smile and pats the bed next to him. Eddie gives an uncomfortable little huff of a laugh, and sits down next to Richie on top of the bedcovers. He’s still for a moment, and then broaches the distance between them to hold something out to Richie – a folded over piece of white copy paper. Stuck to the top-left corner is a little bow made out of sparkly, purple ribbon.

Richie looks from the paper up to Eddie’s face; he’s so pale that Richie can see every one of the freckles across his nose in stark relief, but his face is set in that expression of fierce determination that kid-Richie had always associated with Eddie about to do something extraordinary.

“What is it?” he asks blankly.

“A birthday present.”

“You’re still a little early.”

“That’s okay,” Eddie says, smiling slightly as Richie takes the paper from his outstretched hand. “Your real present is still in my case. This is…something else.”

Richie holds his gaze for a second, and then looks back down at the piece of paper and flips it open. It’s a print-out of an email, the recipient listed as ‘ekaspbrak@callahaninsurance.com’. Richie opens his mouth but Eddie shakes his head firmly.

“Just read it,” he pleads.

“ _Dear Mr Kaspbrak_ ,” he reads out loud, and Eddie smiles again. “ _Further to our conversation on Tuesday, I can now confirm that all the paperwork regarding your transfer to our LA office has been completed and—_ ”

Richie gasps – literally gasps like a fucking _cartoon character_ and looks back up at Eddie, who gives a watery laugh at what is probably a fairly stupid expression of shock on Richie’s face.

“Like you said, they have an office out here.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t think…”

“I know,” Eddie says soberly. “I wanted to talk about it properly, I was going to give this to you after the stupid cupcake and then _talk_ about it and tell you…” He stops, staring into Richie’s soul with those big brown eyes.

“Tell me what?” Richie prompts. The email print-out is slowly being crushed as he clenches his hands into fists, trying desperately to stop shaking.

“The truth,” Eddie says, with a nervous little laugh. “I’m in love with you.”

It’s like all the tension bleeds from him immediately; an expression nothing short of wonder breaks over his face like sunshine and he laughs, light and happy. “I love you too. Fuck, I’m _so_ in love with you. And all the things you said about LA were true – like, it’s not nothing that the other Losers either live here or are here all the time, and that it’s thousands of miles away from Derry, and that I won’t freeze to death in the winter, but...I needed to be where you are. The other stuff is just a bonus.”

He smiles at Richie tentatively, almost expectantly, but Richie can’t _breathe_ , the echo of Valentine’s day ringing in his head where he’d had to talk about all the logical reasons he could offer for Eddie to move out here, and bite his tongue so he wouldn’t just beg. _I'm out here Eds, and god I wish that was enough._

“Eddie—” His voice is rough and he can barely even see Eddie his eyes are swimming that much; he just reaches for him blindly and Eddie slots into his arms, into the space that had always been saved for him, a perfect fit.

Richie clings; shaking apart in Eddie’s arms while Eddie runs one hand soothingly up and down his back and uses the other to carefully cup the back of Richie’s head. He mumbles comforting nonsense into Richie’s ear and doesn’t even complain about the fact that Richie’s runny nose is pressed against the side of his neck, or that there’s a steady trickle of tears dripping from Richie’s chin into the neck of his t-shirt. Eddie nuzzles into Richie’s tangled, sweaty, disastrous hair and stamps a kiss against his temple and then Richie’s pulling away to kiss him properly, and they’re both shaking and clumsy and Richie’s still half-crying, but Eddie cups his jaw tenderly with one hand, running his thumb under Richie’s eye and kissing him, steady and sweet.

“Tell me again,” Richie says when Eddie breaks the kiss with a little pop. “Eddie—”

“I love you,” Eddie says, with no hesitation. “Rich, I’ve loved you the whole time, I never – ah!” He shouts in surprise as Richie gets both arms around his torso and tackles him back onto the bed, peppering his face with kisses while Eddie giggles and swears and fights until they’re side by side on Richie’s pillow.

“Listen,” Eddie says softly, tracing the lines of Richie’s face with his fingertips. “I know you were the one who brought up the idea of me moving out here, but I also know you were joking—”

“Eds,” he says, slipping his hands underneath the waistband of Eddie’s fresh shorts to haul him closer by the ass. “Eds, I promise I wasn’t.”

“Well, I was just gonna say that...there’s no pressure on you to...I spoke to Bill and Mike about it too – moving I mean, not about...us." He blushes as he says it, glowing rosy all along his dimpled cheeks and Richie thinks he must be glowing just as brightly. _Us_. “And they’ve said I can stay with them while I...while we decide what we’re gonna do, and I can find my own place if that’s what you want—”

“Eddie...Eds you seriously think I’m ever letting go of you again? You’re _nuts_ ,” he says, wrapping his arms around Eddie’s waist and burying his face against Eddie’s chest. “You live here now.” His voice is muffled in Eddie’s t-shirt, and Eddie gives a soft snort of laughter.

“What? In your bed?”

“I mean,” Richie emerges from Eddie’s chest to grin up at him, “ideally, yeah.”

Eddie slides his hand down to give Richie a sharp pinch on the thigh, but he’s smiling as he eases Richie’s glasses off and reaches over to place them carefully next to the lamp.

“I’m not joking,” Richie says quietly, pressing his forehead to Eddie’s and pecking a kiss on the end of his nose. “If it’s what you want...you live here now. I don’t want you anywhere else, I’ve spent decades missing you already.”

“Aw,” Eddie coos, almost entirely sincerely, only a little bite that’s immediately soothed when he reaches up for a kiss. “I missed you too Rich, the whole damn time.”

He settles down in Richie’s arms then; quiet and still like he almost never is, his chest – whole and living and perfect – pressed flush against Richie’s, their heartbeats one steady rhythm.

“Hey,” Eddie says suddenly, and pokes his toes against Richie’s shin. “Look at your clock, it’s after midnight.”

The glowing green digits on the novelty clock by the bed hang in the darkness – 00:03.

“So it is.”

Eddie kisses him again, indulgent and loving, and then breaks away to wrap Richie up in his arms.

“Happy birthday Rich.” 

*

When Ben holds out a ridiculously-sized birthday cake the next day at Bill’s and tells him to make a wish, Richie turns to Eddie and makes a stupid joke about wishing for a kiss on his birthday.

Eddie turns pale, and Richie’s kicking himself until the other Losers start laughing and Richie retreats momentarily in the safety of the joke, trying not to let the panic on Eddie’s face sting too much.

But when he looks back at Eddie his eyes are gleaming and there’s something that could easily turn into a smile tugging at the corners of his lips, ferocious and determined, like he’s on the receiving end of a particularly wild dare that he knows he’s going to win.

He reaches up on tip-toe to kiss Richie full on the mouth in front of everyone.

Richie winds his arms around Eddie’s waist immediately, spinning him around in a wobbly circle, both of them smiling so wide they’re barely even kissing anymore, their mouths just pressed together while the other Losers whistle and hoot and cheer at them.

Later, when Bill’s fallen asleep on the floor and Mike and Stan are dutifully cleaning up and Bev is braided Patty’s hair, Eddie curls up next to Richie on the couch and looks up at him sleepily.

“What _did_ you wish for Richie?”

Richie leans down to kiss him, wrapping his arms around Eddie’s shoulders and squeezing him tight.

“Eddie my love,” he says, “not a damn thing.”

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on Tumblr where I am also [HauntedHotel](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/hauntedhotel) for further nonsense.


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